


an unfinished elegy

by omoiyaris



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Azure Moon - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Injuries, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), The Great Fódlan Bakeoff (Fire Emblem)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26446270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omoiyaris/pseuds/omoiyaris
Summary: All that’s left is to count his regrets—things Ashe hesitated to say, lines he was too nervous to cross. Naively, he believed there would be time enough for him to slowly grow into his feelings, and that Dedue would be there, ever patient, when he finally did, because he never conceived of a reality where he wasn’t.Ashe’s hands sink into the earth as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Dedue,” he says thickly, his voice echoing in the empty greenhouse. “The greenhouse needs you.”I need you.“Please come back.”Ashe and Dedue, throughout the war.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74





	an unfinished elegy

**Author's Note:**

> written for round two of [the great fodlan bake off](https://twitter.com/TGFodlanBakeoff)! the prompts were flowers, reunion, courage, ~~sunrise~~ /sunset, trust. some of these are more loosely interpreted than others, but i tried to fit all of them in!

Following the battle, Ashe’s feet lead him to the greenhouse. His shoes are still caked in mud, his clothes dark with blood—though not his own, blessedly—and his quiver is entirely depleted. Perhaps later, he’ll return to the site of the fighting in search of any unbroken arrows to reuse, but right now—

Right now, Ashe is _tired_ of war and death. Maybe it’s too early for that; the Kingdom’s counter-attack is only beginning. Nothing today is the same as it was the day before. Byleth’s alive, Dimitri’s been found, and the rest of the Blue Lions have been reunited. It should energize him, but exhaustion settles into his bones, a persistent weariness as impossible to shake off as the imprint of blood on his hands. 

Coming to a halt in front of the greenhouse, Ashe pushes open the heavy doors with a wry smile, noting how much easier it is compared to years past. Garreg Mach has changed, its grandeur turned to rubble, but so has he. No longer is he the wide-eyed, idealistic commoner who first stepped foot here, utterly unsure of his place in the world but determined to do his best.

The greenhouse clearly has not been maintained since the fall of the monastery. A small sigh escapes Ashe’s mouth as he surveys the extent of the neglect. Some of the plants have grown wild, creeping over the floors and up the walls, but others are dry and withered. Broken pots litter the ground, seeds spilled underneath. 

_Dedue would know what to do with all this_ , he despairs, then stops. _Dedue_. His chest constricts, slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs. Dedue used to spend so much of his time in the greenhouse. If there’s any place in the monastery where Ashe could hope to find his ghost, it would be here. 

But the place is empty and cold, devoid of Dedue’s solidly warm presence. Glumly, he concludes that it was foolish of him to chase spectres to begin with. 

There is a corner of his heart that refuses to believe Dedue is dead. The larger, more rational part of him knows that Dimitri’s grief is not faked, that only death would have separated Dedue from his liege. The rational part of him implores him to accept this as fact and move on. 

How could it have taken Ashe so long to hear? To _know_? All those letters to Dedue gone unanswered, all those reports devoid of his name… In his scramble to collect every scrap of information on the man as he possibly could, Ashe blindly convinced himself that no news was good news, only to be faced with the grim truth now. 

Dropping into a crouch beside a flowerbed, Ashe peels off his gloves and runs a finger over the weathered sign that once named the plants growing here in Dedue’s careful hand. He’d hoped before coming here to maybe gather a few blossoms and place them in Dedue’s room. It’s a pointless gesture, in all likelihood, but Ashe feels compelled to do _something_ in remembrance of him.

There is no grave under the name of Dedue Molinaro to lay flowers on, no marker to honor his service or commemorate his sacrifice. Only faint imprints of his friend remain: in the well-worn signs in the greenhouse, in the broken training axe in the corner of his room, in the spices tucked away in a forgotten cabinet in the kitchens. 

How is Ashe supposed to mourn a man history is likely to forget? 

He drags a hand down his face and lets out a watery laugh. Ashe is no stranger to loss; he’s bid farewell to his parents, Christophe, Lord Lonato, even Byleth for a time—but Dedue hits unexpectedly hard, perhaps because by the time Ashe learned he was ever in danger, it was already too late to attempt to help. He may have learned to carry old hurts without crumbling underneath their weight, but the freshest cut _stings_. 

All that’s left is to count his regrets—things Ashe hesitated to say, lines he was too nervous to cross. Naively, he believed there would be time enough for him to slowly grow into his feelings, and that Dedue would be there, ever patient, when he finally did, because he never conceived of a reality where he _wasn’t_. 

Ashe’s hands sink into the earth as he squeezes his eyes shut. “Dedue,” he says thickly, his voice echoing in the empty greenhouse. “The greenhouse needs you.” _I need you._ “Please come back.” 

His ghosts don’t answer—if, indeed, Dedue’s one of them; instead, they hover around him in silence. 

* * *

Myrddin is _hell_. 

Every inch of Ashe’s body aches with phantom and fresh pains from wounds both old and new, slowing his movements. A deep gash to his cheek—the result of a close brush with a hand-axe—steadily drips blood down his face, its coppery tang filling his mouth. His vision is hazy, his aim untrue, and as his next shot goes wild, Ashe drops to one knee with a curse, knuckles white around his bow—

And then Dedue is _there_ , perplexingly. Ashe wonders for a moment if he too is dead, but Dedue is warm and changed and so full of vitality that he can’t be anything but alive. He barely hears Dimitri’s shouts of surprise or Byleth’s barked orders, barely hears anything beyond the war drums pounding in his chest. 

A gauntleted hand wraps around Ashe’s arm and helps him to his feet. Dedue’s grip is gentle, careful, conscious of his strength and Ashe’s injuries. Blinking back tears, Ashe tips his head back to drink in Dedue’s face, wanting to say something sweeping and grand, something that expresses both sheer relief and delight at seeing him here, safe and alive. 

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out but a strangled, unintelligible noise. His expression impassive, Dedue moves to cover Ashe with his shield, and an errant arrow bounces harmlessly off its surface. Before Ashe can thank him, his mouth is suddenly close to his ear, asking, “Are you hurt?” 

“Dedue,” he breathes, wanting nothing more than to rest his forehead against his chest. “No— _yes_ , but I can still fight.” Ashe takes a trembling step forward, only for his knees to buckle once more. Dedue catches him before he can hit the ground. 

“I have you, Ashe.” His voice is a deep rumble; the sound reverberates down Ashe’s spine and to his toes. 

His fingers scramble for purchase in Dedue’s armor as he pulls himself upright. “Don’t leave again,” he chokes out, and it’s a selfish, childish request to make in the middle of a pitched battle. Ashe is aware of that, _aware_ that he is asking for too much. 

Dedue blinks, startled, then says, “I will not.” The lines of his face soften as Ashe finally releases him, and unlike a mirage or hallucination, he doesn’t vanish into the mist or fade away like the after-image of a spell. True to his word, Dedue doesn’t stray from his side until they win the battle. 

Later, while Dedue is occupied with Dimitri, Ashe heads to the cathedral and thanks the Goddess and the deities of Duscur for bringing Dedue back to them.

* * *

Being around Dedue is occasionally difficult, through no fault on his part. _Ashe_ is the one overly-conscious, too aware of the changes wrought within the span of their years apart. Dedue’s taller and bulkier than he remembers, making Ashe’s own growth seem insignificant in comparison. His eyes follow Dedue in the training grounds, noting the fluidity of his movements and the strength contained in his arms, his back. He sports a face full of scars where there was once smooth skin and dresses in patterns and colors unlike anything Ashe is used to. 

Ashe can’t help but wonder about the story behind each and every change. In truth, he has five years’ worth of things he wants to ask, to know about. But Dedue has always been a private person, and Ashe is certain he would not appreciate being bombarded for personal information. Curbing his desperate curiosity, he opts for patience instead; he’ll cross the gulf between them step by step, without hesitation, the same way he’d done during their time at Garreg Mach. 

Dedue remains bemused at the idea of someone taking an interest in him. His faint disbelief is familiar, but unlike before, he’s as not reticent to share scraps of information. Ashe collects these greedily—the story of a failed ambush here, the memory of a brief visit to Duscur there. The vivid description of a flower he passed by, a quiet admission of, “I would have liked to show it to you,” that has Ashe flushing red. 

Whatever may have changed, the _heart_ of who Dedue is remains the same as Ashe remembers. He takes comfort in that. 

Much like in the past, he often joins Dedue in the greenhouse, working in silence and finding comfort in his presence. No longer a ghost, his essence fills each corner, imbuing the place with a tranquil sort of energy. The greenhouse is wholly _his_ , and he doesn’t know how anyone can ever think otherwise.

“Ashe,” Dedue says, breaking the familiar silence one afternoon. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a rag and sits back. It’s rare for him to speak first; Ashe directs his attention to Dedue’s face rather than his bare arms and listens closely. “I wish to thank the person who has been taking care of the greenhouse in my stead. It is in better condition than I hoped for.”

“Oh.” He rocks back on his heels, pressing his palms to the floor. “It was me. _Well_ ,” Ashe corrects quickly, “Others helped with the planting and harvest, but I’ve been doing what I can whenever we return to the monastery.”

Dedue’s expression shifts, imperceptibly, to one of surprise. 

“The flowers over there are my project in particular,” Ashe continues, pointing to a well-lit corner of the greenhouse. Dedue used to take care of that flowerbed, if memory serves correctly. He’d managed to get his hands on some seeds from a passing merchant and planted a small section of vibrant, hardy red flowers. “I know wasting space on flowers when we need to grow food is silly, but—“ _I grew them for you_ , he wants to say. 

Dedue climbs to his feet and approaches the flowerbed, his gaze cast downwards, drinking in the red and orange hue of the blossoms. “These flowers are not a waste,” he says firmly. “They are beautiful.” He reaches out to brush his finger against one of the petals, careful not to pluck it from the stem. The look on his face is so _peaceful_. Ashe swallows past the lump in his throat. 

“I mourned you,” he blurts out, in lieu of anything else. The muscles in Dedue’s back tense as Ashe picks himself up and draws closer. The flowers are dedicated to him, of course. Ashe felt the best way to honor Dedue was to help them flourish. “When I heard—I felt—”

Dedue turns mid-sentence. “There was no need.” His clear eyes are piercing, though troubled. 

“You’re my friend, Dedue. What else was I going to do? Forget and move on?” Ashe shakes his head vigorously. “I don’t want to forget you or anyone else I’ve lost.” 

The silence between them grows too heavy to carry. Dedue looks away. “Aside from the professor and his highness, I did not believe my life or death mattered much to anyone.”

It hurts that Dedue would even think that. “It matters,” Ashe says thickly. “Your life matters to me. I’d like to see you alive and happy until you’re old and grey.” He pauses, eyeing Dedue’s hair. “Grey _er_ ,” he corrects, with a hesitant grin. 

“Thank you, Ashe.” His mouth twitches into a small smile, so fleeting that Ashe nearly misses it. He doesn’t miss the warmth in Dedue’s voice, however. “I have missed you.” There is a glimmer in his eyes as he returns to admiring the flowers, and after a moment’s pause, Ashe joins him, the distance between them mere inches. If he stretches his fingers, he could touch Dedue, and there is a part of Ashe that _wants_ —

But for now, he thinks, he’s content with this.

* * *

The assault at Arianrhod leaves the entire army battered and exhausted. Ashe wants nothing more than to collapse once Mercedes heals his wounds, but one glance at Dedue has him clambering to his feet and offering his assistance with Dedue’s damaged armour. To his surprise, Dedue inclines his head in thanks, then beckons Ashe inside his tent. 

Helping Dedue strip out of his heavy plate armour is an ordeal. There’s simply so _much_ to take off; the pile at their feet grows with each piece Ashe pulls free. For a time, the only sounds filling the tent are metallic clanging as he tosses more dented and worn pieces of armor to the floor and the grunts of exertion that slip out of Ashe’s mouth. 

“The blacksmith ought to be able to fix it up,” he says once the deed is done, gesturing to the pile. Dedue grimaces and nods before gingerly peeling off his underclothes, still conscious of his recent injuries. Ashe had observed Marianne heal Dedue in the aftermath of the battle, but he knows from experience that magical healing does very little to dull the pain. 

Thankfully, his own wounds are light. Mounted archers work best from a distance—he cannot say the same for warriors like Dedue, always in the thick of the fighting. 

His eyes return to the man in question, only to be greeted with the sight of Dedue naked to the waist, his mouth set in a thin line as he rolls his shoulders back. “Dedue,” Ashe says, his mouth momentarily dry. “You have so many scars.” 

They litter not only his face, but cover his back and torso as well. Some wounds are recent, still-healing, bordered by ugly looking bruises, but more are evidence of old hurts, acquired in skirmishes Ashe wasn’t a part of. He traces the pale line of a large cut across Dedue’s shoulder blade with a wince. Distantly, he wonders if the fatigue has made him brave, or if it’s the quiet stillness of the stolen moment that pushes him forward to close the distance between them in a way he’s never dared to before.

Dedue inhales sharply through his teeth. “They do not pain me anymore,” he says, voice low as he shifts in place. 

“How did you get them?” Dedue doesn’t object to his touch, so Ashe’s hands move further down to gently probe a starburst shaped mark on his lower back.

“I was reckless.”

“ _You_ , reckless?” He thinks of Dedue as an immovable wall, careful and cautious in his actions, but the truth is, there’s nothing methodical about the way Dedue fights. He protects, and he survives, and sometimes it’s messy. “I suppose I can see that,” Ashe concedes. “You turn desperate when you have something to protect, with little regard for your own life.”

Dedue falls silent, and Ashe wonders if he took offence to his words, when—“You disapprove,” Dedue says, more a statement than a question, but he doesn’t sound angry, only detached. 

“No!” Even if he did, Ashe would like to think he understands what drives Dedue: loyalty, fidelity, love for Dimitri. “No—I just worry.”

“You are too kind.” Dedue makes a noise in the back of his throat, and it takes Ashe a moment to recognize it as a chuckle. 

“I don’t worry about you because I’m _kind_.” It may be the opposite—a good knight, Ashe reflects, should and _will_ lay down their life to protect their liege lord or their comrades-at-arms, but the thought of losing Dedue—no matter how justified—overwhelms him. _Not again_ , he thinks fiercely. So abruptly, so pointlessly. Dedue shouldn’t just be _expected_ to die, as if him sacrificing his life is normal.

“Ashe?” Dedue twists around, his eyebrows knitting together in concern when Ashe doesn’t respond. 

Pulling himself from his thoughts, he touches the scar through the edge of Dedue’s mouth, wondering how it ever got there. Dedue covers his hand with his own, and _oh_ , it’s hot to touch, as if Dedue is burning up from the inside out. 

“I’m sorry; does it hurt?” Ashe asks, moving to pull his hands away, but Dedue holds it in place, his eyes silently searching, beseeching, before fluttering shut as he leans slightly into Ashe’s touch. 

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.” 

Ashe holds his heart in his throat until a summons from Dimitri shatters the moment, and even after Dedue leaves the stand, he stands there dazed, clenching and unclenching his fist. The heat from Dedue’s hand lingers. 

* * *

The night before the army is set to converge on Enbarr, Ashe searches for Dedue around the camp. He eventually finds him sitting removed from the crowd, under the shade of a tree. Dedue’s eyes are fixed on the sunset painting the sky in shades of orange and red, the same colors as his favorite flowers back in the greenhouse. He’d said, once, that they reminded him of summer in Duscur. Ashe remembers thinking, with a pang, that Duscur must have been very beautiful indeed. 

The sun’s rays bathe Dedue in a warm, golden flow; he looks otherworldly, ethereal, like a figure out of one of Ashe’s errant daydreams. Sometimes he’s still afraid that Dedue isn’t real, that he’d wanted him bad enough that he’d imagined his return. Mouth set in a thin line, Ashe puts a hand on his shoulder before taking a seat beside him to admire the sunset. 

Dedue doesn’t jerk in surprise, but Ashe feels him stiffen underneath his hand; the tension in his muscles eases when he sees Ashe out of the corner of his eye. “I thought you were resting,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Do you need something from me?”

“I’ve rested enough.” There’s not much to do except dwell on tomorrow’s battle, anyway. He stretches his arms above his head and sighs. “Ah, but I don’t need anything. I was just making sure you’re not a ghost.” 

“I am… not a ghost, no.” The faint amusement in Dedue’s voice fades a moment later as he squints up at the sky. “Are you afraid, Ashe?” The question is almost casual, but he senses the concern underneath, the implicit offer— _if you want to talk, I will listen._

“It would be strange if I wasn’t, right?” He laughs and twists his fingers in stems of grass. The time before any battle nerve-wracking; there’s no guarantee he’ll survive the upcoming hostilities, and every chance that the next corpse his friends drag off the site of the fighting will be his. Maybe he should be used to this by now, but Ashe’s hands still shake when he thinks about what’s to come. 

“I suppose I am a little scared,” he admits after a drawn-out pause. “I could die tomorrow. But I could’ve died at any point over the past years as well.” Ashe’s head drops. “I’m more scared to lose people I care about. To lose you, again.” The older the gets, the further away the ideal of knighthood slips from his grasp. He’s too selfish for it, perhaps. His wants have grown beyond the simple childhood dream. 

Dedue’s expression twists, barely, the corner of his mouth tugging down in displeasure, or perhaps deep thought. “I am not eager to throw my life away,” he says, his voice a quiet murmur. He sounds vaguely surprised by his own confession, but there is no uncertainty in his words. “I would like to see what awaits beyond the end of this war.” 

Hearing that is something of a relief. “I would too,” Ashe says with a smile. 

“With you,” Dedue continues, after a moment of hesitation. 

“I would too—” He stops, eyes widening. “Er, Dedue…?”

Dedue shifts uncomfortably, his fingers picking at the thick fabric of his pants. His gaze averted, he says, “Forgive me if I overstepped. I thought you were implying—our friendship is—”

“No! It was what I—” Ashe struggles to keep from tripping over his words. “I’d like to see what the future holds with you too, Dedue.” He’s grateful that, no matter which paths they tread after the war, Dedue intends to be there—by his side. As an afterthought, he adds, “So you mustn’t fall.” But he trusts Dedue enough to feel confident that he’ll keep his word, and some of the fear tied with tomorrow’s battle abates.

He turns his head to meet Dedue’s steady gaze. “We shall watch the sunset together again,” Dedue says, and it sounds like a promise for the future. Ashe’s hand seeks Dedue’s in the cold grass, their fingers entwining when they meet. 

“I’m looking forward to it.” Ashe believes wholeheartedly that whatever lays ahead for them will only be bright. If anyone deserves a calm, peaceful life from now on, he thinks it would be Dedue, and Ashe wants to give it to him. 

* * *

Outside his inn, Ashe plants a bed of flowers from Duscur. 

The seeds were rare, obtained only through Byleth—the archbishop’s—connections. She’d given them to Dedue as a gift, who passed them along to Ashe during a brief visit before the royal wedding. He’d asked Dedue if he didn’t want to plant these in Fhirdiad, to keep a piece of home close, and Dedue had only shaken his head. “They are better suited to this place,” he’d said. “I am certain they will flourish under your care.”

Dedue visits often, whenever his duties will allow. He’s not the only one of Ashe’s friends to do so, but as he admits to Annette one afternoon, Dedue is different from the rest. He always has been, and it takes six, seven years for Ashe to admit to that he’s in love with Dedue. 

It’s agony to watch him leave after his brief visits. Dedue promises to return, but maybe Ashe is too greedy in wanting a more permanent part of him to _stay_. He tells himself to be content with the traces of Dedue left around the inn—the flowers outside, the Duscur cuisine he cooks everyday, the knitted shawl thrown on the back of Ashe’s favorite chair Dedue gifted him one winter—but he doesn’t want to settle for scraps once more. 

He wonders if Dedue would want the same. Part of him is scared to ask—Dedue would never be unkind in his rejection, but Ashe fears that duty to Dimitri will prevent him from taking a step into a shared future. 

His thoughts continue to twist into a tangled knot as he counts down the days to Dedue’s next visit. He doesn’t expect to find the man on his doorstep on a rainy morning. It’s a rare sight—Dedue, out of armor, his hair wet and unbound, looking at Ashe like he’s seeing him for the first time. “I left His Majesty’s service,” he says, before Ashe can ask. 

Ashe freezes in shock and disbelief before gathering his senses and ushering Dedue inside. “What? Why would you do that?” He disappears into the back to fetch a towel and returns to find Dedue sweeping his hair out of his face and scowling at the puddle of water gathering at his feet. 

“I am sorry about the mess.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He hands Dedue the towel and steps back, still confused by his announcement. “Why did you leave Dimitri?”

Dedue is silent as he towels his hair dry. Ashe is patient, willing to wait, and after what feels like an eternity, Dedue says, “ _Ashe_.” With Dedue, he’s learned over the years, there is much to discern from his silences, from his pauses, from the space between his words. What Ashe can glean from his observations is as important as what Dedue says—and now, he sees the trepidation in the line of his mouth, the fidgeting hands that twist the damp towel, the unease and the hope in his eyes. 

“Ashe,” he says again. “I wish to stay for a while, if you will have me.” 

It’s an offer, Ashe thinks dazedly. A heart freely given. More than he could’ve dreamed of, more than he dared to hope for. But this is not a dream, and Dedue is not a ghost. He swallows thickly and looks up at his face. The expression he’s wearing might’ve been unsettling to anyone else, but Ashe wants nothing more than to smooth the worry lines with his own hands.

“Dedue…” He reaches forward and tugs the towel free before grasping his hand in both of his own. It’s large and warm as always, the callouses as familiar to Ashe as his own. “I’m glad you’re here. Stay as long as you would like.” Forever, if he wants. _Forever_ , Ashe hopes. Emboldened by the hope spreading through his veins, he says, “Don’t leave again,” echoing a battlefield request from years past, once he's not even sure Dedue remembers, but—

Surprise flares in Dedue’s eyes, before the tension in his face melts into the most beautiful smile Ashe has ever seen. “I will not,” he says, taking another step towards Ashe, until all he can see is the gentleness in his gaze. “I swear to you.”

It is a promise Ashe knows he will keep.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i might've been a little overly ambitious with this project, but i'm so thrilled i managed to outline/draft/finish this fic within the 48 hour time frame. it's been a while since i've written fe3h fic in particular, but i love ashe and dedue and ashedue so... i'm glad i got the chance to give it a shot! 
> 
> anyway! thank you for reading ♡ come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bokuto_mp4) if you want!


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